


The Pieces, They Fall

by Bastetmoon



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Cousin Incest, Darkening of Valinor, Everyone Has Issues, F/M, Family Drama, Feanor's daddy issues, M/M, Russingon, Secret Relationships, everything is going to hell, finweion family drama, little drama monsters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-06 11:40:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4220322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bastetmoon/pseuds/Bastetmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The light of the Trees wanes, Melkor is released from his bondage, and the wedge between brothers is driven wider. While Feanor prepares to confront his half-siblings, Maedhros clutches at the remnants of the life he's known. Story leading up to the Darkening of Valinor and the Fall of the Noldor, POV characters will vary by chapter. Mild slash. Violence in future chapters.<br/>On Hiatus, my apologies</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Board is Set

Eagerly the ripples ran out from the center of the room, each wave of noise lapping up against the ears of the onlookers. Tensely they shifted, a sea of rich tones and glimmering jewels.

                “My lords, what a welcome you give me.” A voice, rich and sonorous rippled through the chamber, reverberating on the marble columns so that the speaker might have spoken a hundred words rather than only a handful. Greyed lips quirked upwards to frame a haughty smirk. “I am honored.”

                “It is we who are honored, honored to host such an important and powerful guest.” The King’s robes rustled as he descended the steps, the silver embroidered hem dragging heavily behind him like a train. Red-Gold glinted upon wrists and brow as if fire had been captured in the swirling patterns of metal. Tall and stately stood Finwë and yet his head reached barely to the chin of the stranger, standing unbent and proud. “My lord Melkor we are in your service.”

                In after years Maitimo might have sworn he had seen the malignant gleam in that smile, but when it broke there for the first time in the court of the High King it was as if a precious gift had been imparted on them, each and every one. Warmth flowered in his chest. On the steps beside him the Ambarussa leaned forward in anticipation and Makalaure stood as if transfixed. Only Tyelkcormo who had hunted in the presence of Lord Orome and knew well the power of the Valar seemed mostly unaffected.

                Eyes darted around the chamber. Two pits of coal they seemed, crackling with an inner power. Almost urgently the Valar raked the crowd as if searching for a missing piece.

                “My lord, let me present to you my sons, princes of the Noldor.” The intensity passed and the Valar directed his attention back to the king, the expression on his face bemused.

                Three elves came forth from the crowd. Pride surged in the heart of Maitimo and was written clearly upon the faces of his brothers. For though their father was dressed in a simple fashion it was the light of the trees and the stars he wore upon his brow. The silmarilli gleamed and in that moment all eyes were drawn to the face Feanaro. Beside him his half-brothers could only be dwarfed in grandeur.

                “Feanaro Curufinwe my heir. First in my heart as he is my first son, and after these are Nolofinwe and Arafinwe sons of my fair bride Indis.”

                The Valar’s eyes gleamed, as if molten gold had been poured about the irises. “I deeply honored.” His and Feanaro’s eyes met and it seemed for a moment as if the air crackled with power. “One does not meet an artist of such renown every day.”

                The silmarilli upon Feanaro’s brow shone harshly as he dipped into the slightest of slight bows.

 

* * *

 

                Flute and harp’s bubbled up in golden music, competing for attention amid the swirl and babble of the courtier’s conversations.

                “Remind me brother, why we do not attend these more often?”  Tyelkormo grinned and took a sip of honeyed wine from his silver goblet.

                Maitimo only shrugged, his eyes following the swirling footsteps of the dancers who spun across the marble floor. Of course they could not attend _all_ the festivities hosted by Finwë. The craft of both their parents determined that such things came second in importance to the forges and workshops. Even if they were to determine such things of more importance, they would have been forbidden to attend any celebration presided over by Indis by the strict command of their father. In this instance only the importance of a visitation from a Valar had deigned to make Feanaro sit beside his mother in law.

                Beside him Makalaure rolled his eyes.

                On the dance floor their cousin Artanis danced exuberantly with her brother Findarato. Lovely as ever the gold of her gown melded with the gold of her hair. Nearby Curvo was dancing with a slender silver haired nis. And in the shadows Caranthir leaned against one of the pillars, arms crossed and eyebrows drawn together in annoyance.

                Further down the table Irissë chatted loudly to Arakano and Findekano. Beside them Turukano fed Elenwë bites off his own plate, drawing wrinkled noses and gagging sounds from his siblings.

Maitimo caught his cousin’s gaze. Findekano grinned, the gold in his braids flashing brightly. He winked and his cousins face went scarlet as he overturned the goblet with a careless motion. Maitimo looked away quickly but Irissë’s shrieks could still be heard as she flung herself away from the spreading pool in a desperate attempt to save the white of her garments. He stifled a chuckle.

Makalaure was staring at him accusatorily.

“What?”

His brother shook his head. “Nothing.” His fingers rolled against the table, tapping out the music.

“Did you compose this one Malalaure?” Maitimo innocently. Tyelko had now risen to help Irissë and Findekano mop up the mess with his handkerchief.

                “Nay. It is Ilindë’s, though I helped her with some of the harmonies.” He nodded at the small roped off section where the musicians sat and to the nis who plucked at the strings of a silver harp.

                “I am sorry father would not let you perform tonight.”

                Makalaure brushed a strand of hair away from his face. “It is all right. After all it would not be seemly for the son of a prince to be seen acting as a common entertainer, at least not in front of our lordly guest.”

                They both glanced sidelong at the Vala, to where he sat beside the king. Resplendent he seemed, clothed in black cloth that seemed to gleam as though it were woven oil. The trimmings gleamed white-gold. The Lord Melkor neither ate nor drank, but his head was inclined towards Finwë and Fëanaro as they spoke. The king’s face remained impassive, but Feanaro’s lips curved downward and when he gestured his movements were sharp and hurried. Beside them Uncle Nolofinwë listened but if he had any opinions he gave no motions of sharing them.

                Even as they looked the Vala rose to his feet, casting the table in long shadows. The dancers continued to move, the music carried on, but at their table all voices ceased.

                “King Finwë you must forgive me forgetting until now, but I came here bearing gifts for you.”

                The air shimmered around the Vala’s hands, solidify into gleaming gold. A necklace he held, adorned with many intricate and twisting patterns. The front of the collar was adorned by a great eye, the iris of which had been set with rubies that seemed to burn in their settings.

                Graciously the King allowed the gift to be laid about his neck.

                “And for your sons. The Vala produced three rings, each set with a stone in a different color. Two were of silver, shaped delicately like and identical in every way except for the stones of sapphire and topaz which graced them. These went to Nolofinwe and Arafinwe who exclaimed their gratitude and slipped them onto tapered fingers. The third was gold, sturdier and more intricate than the others. Its stone was an onyx that seemed to devour all light about it, two chips of ruby flanked it on either side. This went to their father, who examined it carefully, assessing the craftsmanship with a practiced eye.

                The King rose as well, and inclined his head. “I am deeply honored that one such as yourself would bestow such blessings upon us.  It shames me to say we have nothing equal to these to give in return.”

                Lord Melkor spread his hands. “I am sure in time you shall find some way of repaying me.” Dark eyes flitted to Feanaro, who the gaze defiantly. The silmarilli upon his brow blazed. “Yet for now let us be merry and toast to our friendship.”

                As one they raised their glasses.

                When they had drank Maitimo turned back to Makalaure. Tyelkcormo slipped back into his seat a dripped red scrap of cloth in his hands.

                “I did not know the dark one was a smith.”

                “Nor I.” Makalaure glanced at their grandfather and the collar with its great flickering eye. “Perhaps he had a smith forge these gifts for him.”

                “Perhaps.” He mused. At the King’s side Feanaro had yet to put on his ring, slipping it instead into a pouch at his waist.

                “Maitimo! Makalaure! Tyelcormo!” A shadow had fallen across the table in front of them. Nerdanel looked down at him, arms crossed. Behind her the twins trailed in their matching green tunics.

                “Mother.” They inclined their heads to her.

                “Why are you all sitting here? Maitimo? I have yet to see you dance with anyone this evening.” She shook her head exasperatedly, hair falling about her shoulders in a spray of copper. “Perhaps you should ask your cousin, she has been sitting all night as well.” She tipped her head in the direction of the Nolofinweions. Maitimo inhaled sharply, then realized she was pointing to Irissë who had recovered quite well from the wine incident.

                He ignored Tyelko’s stony face and rose to his feet. “Very well.”

                Both Irissë and Findekano looked up as he drew near to them, cutting off whatever conversation they had been engaged in. Two sets of silver grey eyes looked up curiously. Maitimo met Findekano’s gaze, extending his hand.

                “Irissë, I wondered if you might take this dance with me.”

                She glanced between them then rose with a swish of fabric. The diamond net in her dark curls flashed. “Of course cousin.” Gently she laid her hand in his and he bent to kiss it—a long way down since the top of her head came only to his chin. Findekano was smirking and Maitimo fought hard to keep his own composure as he swept Irissë towards the dance floor.

                “You look stunning as ever.” He noted as first notes of a new song began to drift through the air—light and airy.

                She smiled, twin dimples appearing on either cheek. _A family trait._ “Thank you, I think white rather suits me don’t you?”

                In the growing darkness the cloth of her garments was radiant. “It does.”

                “I hope you are enjoying the feast.” It was bland pleasantries, but expected all the same.

                “Of course, though you know full well I’d rather be hunting.” She traced her steps in a broad circle and Maitimo had to look down to avoid tripping over her train.

                “Doesn’t your mother or father mind you gallivanting through the countryside with my brothers?”

                “Oh, Mother might mind but Father’s never cared. And anyways why shouldn’t I? I am as good a hunter as any ner.” She looked up eyebrows arched like two challenges.

                Maitimo merely shrugged. Tyelko had told him as much: that there were days when Irissë outshot even the twins. The dance was a complicated one with many steps. They both lapsed into silence, intent on performing the correct moves.

                The song ended with a series of complicated chords—surely Makalaure’s idea—and Maitimo bent once more to kiss his cousins hand.

                A shadow appeared at Maitimo’s shoulder.

                “I wondered if I might have the next dance brother.”

                “Ai Tyelko!” Irissë grinned broadly.

                “Of course.” He deposited her hand into his brothers almost as if performing a marriage.  A new song started and Maitimo was forced to sidestep to avoid being trampled by the dancers. He watched Irissë and Tyelko spin for a moment then turned away, back toward the head table.

                A familiar face waylaid him before he could make it a handful of steps, a hand catching his wrist in a vicelike grip. Grey-blue eyes—so like his sister’s—twinkled with mischief.

                “Finno what are you doing?!”    

                Findekano’s tugged him forward into the shadow of the spiraling pillar, where the candlelight faded and they were all but invisible.

                “Nelyo, finally.” Findekano’s braids gleamed dimly in the half-light, the ribbons of gold twining like ivy through his dark hair. Upon the chest of his robes the sigil of his father was stitched brazenly in pearls and flecks of sapphire. “It was _killing_ me to see you dancing with Irissë.”

                With a toss of his head Maitimo’s hair fell like a river of fire. “She is your sister, you know I do not think of her in that way.”

                “I should hope not.” Findekano grinned in a flash of white even the darkness could not disguise. “What a scandal it would be: courting a nis and all the while sneaking up to her brother’s room to—“

                With a violent lunge Maitimo pressed his hand to his cousin’s lips. “Finno! Hush!” The music was loud, but not so loud that one intending to hear would not find what they were looking for. Releasing him, Maitimo pressed his back to the cold of the pillar, arms folded against his chest. “You know full well that if my father were to hear you like that you would be banished from our house. Already he thinks you are a spy to his brother.”

                “Then he is mad.”

                Maitimo’s eyebrows drew together into a sharp v, and his voice was cold. “You should not say that.”

                “Please even you can see that he paranoid, every word of my father and Arafinwe’s he takes as conspiracy against him.” Findekano spread his hands, as in an attempt to reason, but his words fell upon deaf ears.

                “If you seek to slight Feanaro then speak to your own father of it and not to me.” Maitimo’s eyes were like two chips of ice, voice deadly quiet. “He is my father and my loyalty must always lie first with him.”

                Finno frowned, grey eyes fixed on something not quite substantial. “I do not wish to fight with you Nelyo.”

                “Then do not try to make me question my loyalties.” Maitimo’s expression softened, “Come let us speak of other things.”

                They made conversation out of nothing: the coming as goings, who was courting who, and watched the couples spinning on the dance floor. Tyelko had taken over as Irrissë’s partner and Curvo was dancing with the silver haired nis he had invited to the event. As usual Moryo was nowhere to be seen and the twins were still fidgeting under the watchful eye of their mother.

                Feanaro sat between Nolofinwe and his father at the high table. On the other side of the king their Valar guest lounged. All four inclined their heads as if in urgent conversation.

                “Why _do_ you think the Dark One has come to visit grandfather?”

                Findekano shrugged. “I do not know, but my father says we should call him Lord Melkor and treat him with the highest respect.”

                “If we do not I’m sure he is perfectly capable of blasting us all to nothing.” Maitimo flicked his head in the direction of the Valar who glanced over almost as if he perceived their conversation. He continued on in a distinctly lower voice. “Father says we should not trust him, he says this Lord Melkor is a master of tricks and that we cannot forget that in our dealings.”

                Findekano sighed but said nothing.

                “Speaking of my father he will be expecting me back,” Maitimo drew himself up, brushing the wrinkles from the front of his robes. The silver star emblazoned upon his chest flashed. “I should go.”

                Findekano laughed also, the gold in his hair glimmering. “You the worst tease I know Russandol!”

                “How so?” There was mock outrage in his voice.

                “You spend the evening dancing about so composed, flashing me that little smile from across the room. Then you leave me with nothing, not even a kiss.”

                “Well if it is a kiss you so desire sweet cousin…” He had to bend low to reach Findekano’s lips, drawing him up onto his tip toes. Finno’s hands tangled in Maitimo’s copper curls.

                “Nelyo?!”

                They broke apart and Maitimo let out something akin to a yelp. Makalaure was standing with his arms crossed, a rather bemused expression on his face.

                Findekano just smiled cheerily. “How are you faring Makalaure?”

                “Fair enough. Though not as well as the two of you it would seem.” He turned to his brother, “I just came to tell you it’s time to go. Father and Uncle Nolofinwe had a spat and mother thinks now would be a good time to say our farewells.” Sure enough, Feanor was no longer sitting at the top table. It was rather hard to miss the wine stain on the front of their Unlce’s light blue robes.

                “I should go find Irissë and Arakano, I’m sure my mother will want us to leave as well.” He headed back towards the feast, calling out over his shoulder. “See you later cousin.” With a wave he disappeared back into the crowd.

                “Father’s sure to be in a rage to—“Makalaure glanced at his brother. “—what? Don’t look at me like that!”

                “We were having a private moment.”

                “In the middle of a feast?” Makalaure snorted, “Here I thought Tyelko was the oblivious one.”

                Maitimo frowned, a wave of nausea coursing through his body.  _They had been so careless, anyone could have seen._ “Please don’t tell anyone.”

                “Don’t worry, I’ve kept your secret so far.” He grinned, “Besides I still owe you for that one time when Ilindë and I—well we shan’t get into the technicalities.”

                Maitimo grinned, remembering the occasion all too well.  Together they started back out toward the opposite end of the room where Nerdanel was waiting with the twins. As they went they managed to drag Tyelko—with more than a few protests and curses—away from the Irissë with whom he had still been dancing. Curvo followed behind, a little shadow of their father.

                From the now nearly empty head table Lord Melkor watched them go with his inscrutable golden gaze. Maitimo turned away, prickles running down his spine.

                “Why were Father and Uncle Nolofinwe fighting?”

                “Who knows?” Makalaure shook his head gracefully. “But I’m sure Grandfather will make them talk and the rift will be mended. These things always blow over with time.”

                As they left the room Maitimo though he caught a final glimpse of Findekano’s gold braided hair.

                _Yes, these things always blow over._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this first chapter of The Pieces, They Fall and that there were not too many errors. I always feel very unqualified to write about the Silmarillion.  
> Also you may have noticed I gave Maglor a wife, since canonically he was supposed to have one but she was never named. Ilinde is an OC of my own invention, and will remain very much a background character in this work.  
> In any case, until next time everyone! For now I will be updating as I finish chapters (since I am on a summer schedule).


	2. A Breath Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being away from court is taking its toll, and not everyone is welcome in the house of Feanor.

                Cool shadows and golden light painted alternating stripes across the tiled floor where the thick drapes had been thrown open. One window hung carelessly open. Through it the occasional gust of warm air stirred the papers that lay scattered across the carved table. Dust swirled in illuminated particles where the light caught them, fading back into invisibility as they passed into the shades.

                “Do you think Father will allow us back at court soon?” Idly Maitimo traced a dark whorl in the table top.

                 Makalaure did not look up. Gently he plucked a note on the small harp in his lap, scribbling it down on the sheaf of parchment laid out before him.

                “Kano?”

                “What?” His quill stopped, hovering above the parchment.

                “I asked if you think we’ll be allowed to return to court.”

                “Hmm.” Makalaure brushed the feather gently across his lips, eyes turned to slits as he scrutinized the work. “I doubt it.”

                 More notes followed, the foundations of what seemed a very mournful tune. Bored, Maitimo tapped two of his fingers on the table. A trickle of sweat ran down the back of his neck. Despite the lightness of his tunic the heat permeated everything. Would that they could take a trip to the sea, perhaps swim in the harbor at Aqualondë as they had as children.

                 “Please stop that.”

                 Maitimo sighed and lay his hand flat on the table, truncating the rhythm he had been building. Instead he turned his eyes to the high windows.

                  Outside the glass panes birds were chirping. From the library one could see almost all the western gardens spread out. Lying on the very edge of Tirion the far wall of their compound garden pressed up against a forest of leafy oaks and birches. Between the house and that a handful of paths wounds their way around flowering hedges and the shadows of willow bows. From around the side of the house came the ringing of hammers as in the workshops the smiths plied metals to their will.

                  “I can’t imagine it will be much longer. Already it has been near a season, and you said yourself that their debates usually blow over quickly.”

                 “Maitimo.” He turned to see Makalaure glaring up at him. “If you continue to ask me pointless questions you will outweigh your use as a second pair of ears and I shall have to ask you to leave.” He sniffed looking back at what he had written. “I cannot concentrate with you yammering on.”

                   Maitimo threw up his hand but held his tongue. Slouching back into his chair he listened as Makalaure began again with the first notes of the piece. It was a gentle thing, with simple tones though masterfully combined. Maitimo could not help but marvel at the way the melody rose and fell. All was under arched with a degree of overwhelming sadness.

                   After a few moments the notes became muddled and the melody was lost.

                  “Arg! I can’t get it right.” Makalaure set his harp upon the table.

                  “It is beautiful, where did you think of that.”

                  “I’m not sure.” His brother shook his head, dark curls bouncing. “It just came to me. But I cannot seem to finish it. Beyond these few verses I am lost.”

                   “Have you asked Illindë what she thinks? She knows more about music than I do.”

                   “Of course but she is just as baffled as I, nothing quite seems to fit.”

                   “Oh.” There was little help Maitimo could offer to his brother in this case. He had never professed to know much about the composure of music. A few times in his youth he had tried his hand at verse, but that had been many years ago. They had read like bad love poetry anyways.

                  “I don’t know why this—“

                   Whatever Makalaure didn’t know was lost as a high pitched scream splintered through the air, accompanied by a rather loud spash.

                   They sprang to their feet, shoulders colliding painfully as they craned their necks out the window. Loud barking echoed through the shrubbery.

                  “Tyelko must have left Huan for the afternoon.”

                  “But I thought he was out hunting with Irissë?” Tyelko never left Huan behind on the hunt.

                   Makalaure shrugged. “I don’t know.”

                   Their suspicion was confirmed as a moment later Curvo’s voice rang out over the gardens. “Back you beast! Shoo!”

                  Curvo appeared, accompanied by a rather bedraggled looking nis. Every inch of her—from silver head to the hem of her gown—dripped, leaving a trail of glistening water behind her as she walked. Huan bounded around them, tail wagging in excitement.

                  “Having a nice walk Curvo?” Maitimo could not resist. Curvo glanced up the window, eyes set in a glare that might have melted the stone from its settings.

                   He opened he mouth, but the nis plucked at his sleeve and said something they could not catch. Gently he steered her in the direction of the house and out of view, casting a final glance at them over his shoulder.

                  Settling back into his chair Maitimo leafed through one of the piles of paper in front of him. “Is Curvo courting her?”

                  “How should I know? Curvo keeps his secrets more guarded than all the rest of us combined.” Makalaure cast a final baleful glance at his notes. “I was not even aware he felt that way about nissë.”

                 “Well she did look a tad like cousin Finderato, perhaps that’s wherein his interest lies.”

                “Don’t tell me I have two siblings sneaking about with their cousin, three if you think Tyelko and Irissë are up to more than just hunting.” Makalaure’s smile faded as he caught the look on Maitimo’s face. “That _is_ why you want father to allow us back at court isn’t it? To see Findekano?” 

                Maitimo hesitated then nodded.

                “Well at least he visits, even mother was remarking the other day how he is constantly coming and going.”

                “That’s just it, if he must continue to frequent our house the others will grow suspicious.” Maitimo plucked a stray hair off the front of his tunic, where it shone like a thread of fire. “I wish Indis and our uncles would just apologize to father, so that we can return to court in good conscious.”

                Makalaure stretched, long arms outstretched. His hair tumbled down the back of his own chair. “Yes but they still maintain that they are blameless and that it was father who first aggrieved lady Indis.”

                “She pronounced grandmother þerinde’s name wrong, certainly she could apologize for that.” Maitimo yawned, the warm air and sunshine tugged on his eyelids, lulling him into a state of lethargy. “Though I suppose court doesn’t matter all that much to father, all his smiths and workshops are here. The Dark one even comes weekly to tell news of the court and give his council.” The Vala had been about their house much as the months had passed, though Feanaro’s sons saw him rarely. Even now Maitimo would not doubt the two were holding council of their own in Feanaro’s private study.

                _“I do not profess to trust him, yet any ally against the grasping of my half-brothers may prove useful indeed.”_ He had told them when first the Vala came to call at their house.

                Makalaure yawned as well, catching it off of Maitimo. “Then perhaps you ought to ask Findekano to speak with his father, tell him to apologize.”

                _Perhaps, perhaps._

                They mused over it in silence until there came the light patter of footsteps in the hallway and the door creaked open. Curvo’s eyes glittered, standing just in the doorway with his arms crossed.

                “Hello brother,” Makalaure stood, “where is your friend?”

                He let out a noise, a little huff somewhere between exasperation and anger. “She wished to return home.”

                “The gardens did not suit her I suppose?” Maitimo asked, keeping his voice as light and conversational as he dared.

                “Hardly.”Curvo’s mouth twisted. “Our _cousin_ is downstairs waiting for you Maitimo. You’d better escort him to leave before father catches him skulking about. The Nolofinweans aren’t welcome here.” With a rustle he turned, back down the hallway he’d come from.

                “It’s as if he blames us that his friend fell in the fountain.”

                 “Well he can hardly blame a dog can he.” Makalaure had picked his harp up once more. “You had better go though, Curvo might be testy but he’s probably right about father.”

                Maitimo leapt from the chair, smoothing out the front of his tunic so that his father’s emblem, stitched upon the front, stood out proudly. “That and I’d rather not listen to you gripe about your song for the next three hours.”

                “It won’t be griping if it turns out to be a masterpiece!” Makalaure shouted after him, but already his brother had bounded from the room.

 

* * *

 

                “Ai! You demons! Leave me alone!”

                Maitimo and Findekano rounded a hedge. Above them the sky was a starling blue, cloudless and serene.

                “Nelyo!” Two voices rang up and two blurs of copper and green collided with Maitimo. With a great whoosh the air left his lungs and he stepped back, feet catching on an uneven cobblestone. The sensation of falling was almost graceful, but only for a second before his back collided painfully with the ground.

                 Two pairs of hazel eyes blinked down at him. The twins were both dressed in their hunting clothes, with bows at their backs and knives at their belts. Their fastenings gleamed silver in the light. Not yet to their majorities, their faces had yet to lose the childish cast of adolescence and they stared with unbridled awe and delight. Copper hair was braided down their backs in great rivers of fire.

                 Somewhere above Findekano laughed.

                “Telvo, Pityo, let me up.” They extended their hands and helped to heave their elder from the ground. Finno was grinning as Maitimo dusted the grass from his clothes.

                 In the shadows of a great elm Carnistir scowled, his arms crossed. His dark hair was disheveled and a deep flush spread across his cheeks.

               “Moryo, how goes it?” Findekano hailed.

                Carnistir scowl deepened and he harrumphed. By his feet a loom was set, now completely overturned. The threads spread out across the ground in a dazzling array of color. “It was going fine, at least until these little beasts decided to attack me.”

                 “Now brother we are hardly little.” Telufinwe offered.

                “Indeed, we’re already as tall as Curvo, and given a year I’m sure we’ll surpass Makalaure too.” Pityafinwe added, brushing a stray hand of hair from his face.

                “Mores the pity too.” Carnistir’s brows drew together and he knelt to gather his thread back into a basket.

                “If you must blame anyone, blame Tyelko. He’s the one who left us behind, even after he promised to take us on his next hunting trip.”

                Maitimo and Findekano watched bemusedly as the twins knelt to help Carnistir gather up his things but were swatted away. Moryo’s pride and prickly nature would allow for no assistance. Instead he hunched his shoulders and tumbled his things into a large heap.

               “Where is Tyelko?” Finno looked curiously to the twins.

              Telufinwe waved a dismissive hand. “Who knows! Probably off hunting somewhere. He was to take us with him, but he told us he would hunt with Cousin Irissë alone today and we weren’t allowed.” He wrinkled his nose.

              Maitimo frowned, “He even left Huan here. I hope they don’t get into trouble.”

              “Did he?” Finno shrugged, gold light glinting on his braids, “Well I wouldn’t worry. Irissë at least can take care of herself.”

               Maitmo laughed, “True enough.”

              Ambarussa glanced at each other. Carnistir straightened up, and regarded them all. His expression darkened as he beheld Findekano—as if seeing him for the first time—and he rounded on Maitimo.

              “What are you doing bringing _him_ here Nelyo?”

               Maitimo stared, taken aback by his brother’s sudden animosity. “Finno has every right to be here if he so chooses brother.”

              “Father would not like it, Nolofinwions are not welcome here.”

             Pityafinwe threw up his hands, “Ah! Get the stick out of your _hakka_! You do plenty of things father would not approve of!” Maitimo glanced at Findekano, whose lips twisted up in the slightest grin. His blue eyes flashed.

           “Oh yes!” Telufinwe joined in, his words rushing out almost faster than comprehension allowed, “Remember the time _Atar_ said we were not to swim in the pond but you did it anyways? And then you got bit by a fish and had to ask _Amil_ to—“

             “Enough!” Carnistir’s ears went scarlet and he squared his shoulders. The silver star embroidered upon the front of his black doublet reflected rays of Laurelin in blinding conflagrations of light. His hands balled into fists.

           Both the twins tensed, their eyes going wide. Of all seven, Carnistir was the quickest to anger, and the quickest also to throw punches.

             “Nelyo? Finno? Moryo?” A nis’ voice floated round the hedge wall. A second later Ilindë rounded the bend. A small lute was tucked under her arm and her dark hair lay braided flat against her skull. “Ambarussa.”

           They inclined their heads to her. As the only one of seven brothers to have yet married, Makalaure’s wife was always treated with the highest regard within their family. Yet they hardly saw her, for she spend most her time away from the politics of the court and the constant flurry of industry that was their home. Instead she preferred to while away her hours with the theatre and Makalaure would’ve joined her there if their father had allowed it. She paused regarding them with her soft grey gaze.

             “Dearest sister.” Maitimo knelt to press his lips to her hand, brushing away the trailing gossamer of her gown.

             “Brother.” A faint smile touched her lips and she tossed her head. Ilindë always evoked an air of calm in their family of mostly _ner_ , where their mother was so often enthralled in their work. She inclined her head to Findekano, “Finno, it is good to see you again.”

         Even Carnistir seemed to calm under her gaze.

             “I had hoped to find Kano among you…” She continued, “Would you know where he is?”

Maitimo straightened, pressing the wrinkles from his tunic. “He was in the study last I saw him.”

                She glanced up at the window, forehead crinkling in concentration. “He has not solved the dilemma of his lasted piece then?”

                “No indeed.”

                “Then I shall see if he requires my assistance.”

                The twins bounded forward, desperate to be free of Carnistir’s dark gaze. “If you would like we could escort you.”

                The three of them wound off through the tree line paths, threading their way in the direction of the house and its cool shadows. Maitimo and Findekano watched them go. Carnistir watched too then gathered his things and slipped off without a backwards glance.

                When he was gone Findekano linked his hand with that of Maitimo. Despite the heat of the day Finno’s skin was cool. His dark braided fell about the both of them, stirred slightly by a faint breeze. Maitimo’s own hair danced upon the wind, flowing as it if were liquid copper. Findekano’s blue eyes looked up questioning, two perfect mirrors of the sky.

                “It’s not true what Moryo said is it? That your father would not have me here?”

                Maitimo looked to the direction his brother had gone. “Moryo has always been quick to anger and quick to assume. It is your father, not you that ours has a quarrel with.”

                Finno signed and lay his head against Maitimo’s shoulder. “Sometimes I think your father is not so reasonable as that. I have said often that you inherited your patience and skill diplomacy from your mother.” He felt Maitimo tense and quickly amended, “But perhaps you are right. I would hope this dispute can be looked past.”

                “So do I. Besides,” he laughed, “you try having six younger siblings and see if you don’t end up patient.”

                Far above Makalaure’s face appeared in the paned window, a pale oval in the darkness of the room beyond.

                “We should go.”

                Findekano stepped back, breaking their embrace. “What do you mean?”

                “We’re standing like fools her for all to see.” Maitimo gestured to the window where Makalaure’s face disappeared once more. “We cannot afford to be so bold.”

                “Ah let them see! You really care if the world knows?” Finno cried, but sobered at the look on his cousin’s face. “Fine, fine. Where do you suggest?”

                Maitimo smirked slightly, and Finno’s face light up. The dimples on his cheeks grew even as his smile did. “Somewhere no one will find us.”

 

* * *

 

               Maitimo collapsed atop his bed. He buried his face in the sheets and inhaled Findekano’s familiar scent.  One golden ribbon lay curled in his hand.

               They had walked in the gardens, and talked and talked for hours, until the last of Laurelin had faded into Telperian’s silver. If he shut his eyes he could almost feel the soft touch of Finno’s lips against his skin. Findekano had snuck away even as Feanaro emerged from his forge, creeping off like a bandit in the night. It was something they both despised.

_Ai Finno, let our father’s stop fighting and we can go back to how it was._

                He let his eyes drift shut, listening to the night sounds of the house. The familiar clang of their father’s hammer upon the anvil chimed through the night air, familiar as a heartbeat. Feanaro never slept.  Perhaps tonight Curvo would be with him as well, hammering their will into the metal.

                Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Heavy, from the tread Maitimo guessed it was Carnistir. They paused by the crack of the door and he lay still until they had moved on.

                He sighed and rolled over, staring up at the dark panels of the ceiling.

                Outside a dove cooed. To him it seemed the world was taking a deep breath. Like the calm before the storm. Even the breeze had ceased, his father’s hammer falls falling into silence. Maitimo closed his eyes, but sleep did not find him.

               

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 4th of July to readers within the USA! For everyone else happy saturday! Hope everyone enjoys chapter 2 wherein we get to see some more family dynamics and more Russingon. As always any constructive criticism is appreciated.  
> Dealing with all these names and nicknames is making me paranoid!


	3. Burn my Bridges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melkor offers council, Feanor plies his craft, and Fingon finds himself an unwelcome visitor.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Finger tips drummed against the polished table top.

Curufinwë Fëanáro jerked his head away from the sound, annoyance coloring the corners of his mouth. Dark hair streamed down the red of his garments, the gold stitching flashing as it caught the light. One hand gripped tight to the arm of the chair as he reclined, the other tracing a glyph upon one of the many papers scattered upon the table.

The noise ceased and the Valar looked up. Golden irises crackled, dispelling for a split-second the shadows that seemed to linger in that proud face.

“Tell me Lord Melkor, what news has come from the sons of Indis?”

Melkor smiled, leaning forward. Though Fëanáro was tall, compared to that of the valar his figure appeared diminutive. “You would be troubled to hear my news of them.”

“Already I know of their insubordination, yet what new devilry would you lay upon them?”

 “Ever they speak against you, for I have come to believe it is their dearest wish to replace you in the heart of the king, your father.” His voice was rich, winding its way through the air in deep reverberations. It fell down upon the ears like silver. “They will stop at nothing to seize your inheritance.”

Fëanáro laughed, filling the room with cold mirth and like that the spell was broken. “They must know that my father shall never turn his back from my cause.”

The valar signed, spreading his hands before him on the table’s surface. “Perhaps this is so. But you think that will dissuade them? Indeed, I have heard rumors now that they are commanding their smiths to build a great store in weapons. There are whisper that if you do not step aside they shall take your place by force.”

“And who has dared to furnish them with weapons?” The words left Fëanáro’s lips in a hiss.

Melkor shook his head and the beads of silver braided into his dark hair clinked in hollow music. “This I do not know. But the elder, Nolofinwe has taken up a great sword and named it Ringil. Perhaps you ought to do the same, for what blades would be sharper than those forged by Fëanáro Curufinwë?” He lend forward as if to whisper in Fëanáro’s but the elf lent back. “I know some of the forging of weapons, and I am great in the spells of warfare. If you allowed then I might aid you in the creation of such things. With my help your foes would tremble before you.”

“Perhaps.” The elf’s eyebrows had drawn together creating a sharp v where they met. “But I think that the Valar upon ____ would intervene in my case. How it look if they allowed the younger to supplant the elder?”

“Ah but you mistake them.” The Valar’s teeth flashed white silver and his voice was practically a purr, “of all the council I am alone in taking up your cause. Why else would I have traveled here? Nay. The other Valar have greedy in their inactivity. They would turn their gaze to you and your own. Your greatest creations they would covet.”

Fëanáro barred his teeth. “The silmarills are the work of my heart and I shall bear none to lay a hand upon them.”

“Yet they are not safe here.”

His eyes narrowed as he beheld the Valar, dark lashes framing an icy gaze. “And what would you have me do _My Lord_?”

Melkor’s tone was all placation, “If you were to but put them in a safe vault, or give them unto the keeping of one whom you could trust—“

Fëanáro stoop sharply, his chair screeching backwards upon stone of the floor. “You offer me good council Lord Melkor, for hidden deep and dark behind iron bars the silmarills shall remain. But how can I know that what you tell me is true? Ever you seek to learn my secrets, to appraise the work of my hands. And though you bring tidings of the sons of Indis how can I know they are not the ones who have you favor. Did Nolofinwë send you hence?!”

The valar stood as well, his height casting long shadows across the table and floor beyond. “If you seek spies of Nolofinwë then I would look to those under your own roof, and not to those who offer only advice and help.” Dark power crackled in his voice, though his expression remained impassive.

Fëanáro pressed the tips of his fingers together, the edge of his robes trailing along the floor as he paced. Crossing the distance in a handful of great strides Melkor laid a hand upon the shoulder of the elf.

“Have I not been a faithful friend to you and your house?”

“Yet is friendship not most often a mask with which to conceal one’s own ambitions. Tell me oh Lord of Darkness what do you expect to gain from me?” His gaze was piercing a challenge to the gold rimmed gaze of the valar who towered above him.

There was a gentle knock on the door.

Fëanáro twisted, shaking the valar’s hand from him. “Enter.”

Silently the door swung inward, Curufinwë Atarinke stepped forward. In red like his father, his dark lay in a plat down his back, and the smudge of ash upon his hands bespoke of his toils in forge. He bowed slightly to the valar, then turned away.

“Father, if I might I have matters I wish to discuss with you.”

Fëanáro jerked his chin in assent, then turned to his guest. His voice was cool, collected, and spoke nothing of his emotions. “You have brought me valuable tidings my lord, and for that I thank you. But now I must speak with my son and it would please me that you leave this house.”

Melkor tilted his head, “As you wish Feanaro Curufinwë. But do not forget my council, for the sons of Indis will give you no reprieve.”

In the doorway Feanaro watched the valar retreat. His dark cloak followed his footfalls down the corridor, as if he drew the shadows along behind him. Slipping the ring from his finger—the valar’s gift from so many moons ago—he cast it down upon the floor. There it fell, tinkling.

 

* * *

 

In the half-light the iron glowed cherry red, flickering flames dancing down its length. With a flick of the wrist Fëanáro plunged the blade into a barrel of brine water. Steam hissed, curling off the water’s surface in great billowing plumes. Shadows danced along the walls, springing out from the many nooks and crannies of the workshop.

“An interesting blade.”

Deftly he hefted the blade, pressing the now cool metal against the palm of his hand. “It is my new design.”

Nerdanel stepped forward. Her copper hair—so like in tone to that of their oldest and youngest sons—lay in a heavy plat over her shoulder. In the light of the forge it shone as if it were the brightest fire. There was stone dust upon the front of her leather smock.  She had yet to change from the rough cotton garb she wore when she worked the vast blocks of marble and alabaster.

“So this is what you have been crafting these last few months? All those hours of secrecy.” The corners of her mouth pinched downwards.

“Secret, yes.” He pulled the leather thong from his hair so that it fell in shadows about his shoulders. Deftly he lifted it, tying it up once more. “You think the Valar would permit me to forge such things? Nay, they are fools. Nor can I permit the dark one to see my craft.” Light crackled in his eyes. “Ever he comes round, sniffing for my secrets. It is so that I almost wonder if he has been sent by Nolofinwe.”

Nerdanel pressed her lips together but said nothing. The set of her husband’s shoulders, the maniac gleam in his face, they told her now was not the time to intervene. It was no use to point out that the Lord Melkor was no better received at the court of his brother’s than in their own home. Later, much later she would lay these things upon his mind. Then he might grow quiet and some of her own wisdom could be imparted carefully, and the quarrel with his half-brothers would be forgotten. At least for a time.

“But come,” He beckoned, “come look upon it.”

She stepped forward and allowed him to lay it in her hands. Light from the forge flickered greedily in the metal. “What are you going to call it?” Her father had once told her that all good weapons had names, be they sword, spear or bow.

“Alcaril.” A smile tugged the corners of his mouth upwards. “Fitting isn’t it? For the blade of the spirit of fire?”

“Alcaril.” Shivers raced the length of her spine as she tasted the word upon her lips. _Bright Blade._ It was indeed fitting. Something in Fëanáro’s gaze was mirrored in his blade, a hunger, a desire perhaps. She had no words for it.

He took it back, cradling it in his arms as gently as he had ever cradled their sons. Carefully he lay it upon the low table where lay his wet stones, and set to shaping the edge of the blade. His dark brows drew together in concentration

“Yet all this, for one blade?” It seemed inconceivable that so much secrecy, so much watchfulness would go into the crafting of such a thing.

He glanced up. “Nay, not just one blade. For Alcaril shall be the first of eight. And there is more besides.” He waved a hand to a rack that lay half hidden at the rear of the workshop. It was a grandiose gesture, drawing her gaze and fixing it upon the object of his intentions.

Nerdanel’s hazel eyes glinted, gold flecks emerging in the firelight. Gingerly she picked her way about the racks and shelves of his most secretive inventions. She stopped before a rack of embossed silver plates. A finger reached out, tracing the swirls and eddies in the metal. Upon the top of the rack lay seven helms, four of which were affixed with great scarlet plums, and three more that were wholly unadorned—not yet complete.

Feanaro watched the tremble of his wife’s hands as she lifted one. He watched the set of the shoulders as she examined the craftsmanship, the silver star set into the metal so that no one would forget the loyalty of he who bore it. The metal was light, yet strong enough to deflect a blow, be it from blade or body. The tip of one finger tapped against its surface. He waited, Alcaril still hefted in hand, so see the merest flicker of reaction cross her face. None came. Her face remained emotionless, eyes blank.

“Are you pleased?”

She turned and the helm fell from numb fingers, wringing hollow against the floor. “What have you done?”

His brows knit together“Of what do you speak? I have only don’t what any father would, protected my sons.”

“Protecting them? No my love this has gone beyond reason.” The hazel of her eyes burned as if light with an inner fire and all around the forge the shadows seemed to flee back from her form.

“When war comes you shall be glad I took these precautions.” Hard veins stood out like chords in his neck.

“You speak of war but it is a war of your own making. What lies have you heard that you think it will come to war between you and your brothers?” At the word brother his gaze sharpened, hands balling into fists, though he made no move otherwise. “And now you would drag your sons into it? Put swords in their hands despite the fact they are little more than children?” She reached out to him, resting one hand upon the tenseness of his shoulder, but Fëanáro shook it off.

“They are not children anymore Nerdanel! It is time they picked a side!”

“Are they not? What of Atarinke?! Ambarussa?! They are too young to have your fanaticism forced upon them!”

“Fantaticism?! You dare call it that when Nolofinwë seeks to steal my birthright and that of our sons as well?” Light burned in his eyes with such an intensity that Nerdanel found it hard to meet his gaze. “Our sons are old enough to understand that! They are children no longer. Even Pityafinwë and Telufinwë will reach their majority soon enough. And as for Curufinwë, already he asked my permission to wed and begin a family of his own. You can hardly think of him as a child!”

“They will always be my children.” The words rushed out of her like the air being crushed out of a set of bellows. She stood, limp and deflated, all the blood rushing from her face. The air went in and out of her lungs in little huffs. How long had it been since she’s spoken to all seven of her sons? How was it that little Atarinke, so alike to his father, was already set to start a family without her even knowing?

In her mind she still remembered each of them as they had laid squalling against her breast, in the noontime of her life when all was fair and bright.  The memories were as sharp as if they had occurred in yesteryear: Ambarussa’s identical set of identical smiles, Carnistir’s scrunched red face as he howled at the world, Makalaure’s lusty squall, and even Maitimo’s inquisitive eyes.

The thought of it made her heart ache, “And what of Maitimo, husband? For he and Findekano are close as if they were brothers. And Tyelko who hunts so often with Irissë? You would sunder those friendships?”

Fëanáro jerked his head, sharp and dismissive. “If need be. We cannot have traitors and usurpers under our roof. I will not, cannot allow it.”

She shook her head, and to Feanaro it was as if her face became stone. As if she had become one of her own statues. “Husband I fear you have gone mad.” The soles of her feet slapped against the stones.

He turned away, honing the blade of Alacril upon the wet stone. Greedily did the steal devour his attentions so that when he was done it might cut through armor, mail and bone. The light of the unattended forge grew dim. Fëanáro cast a glance over his shoulder to the place where his wife had stood, as if maybe she stood there still.

 

* * *

 

The hallways were quiet, Telperion’s light casting odd shadows across the walls and tapestries. Findekano drew the soft folds of his cloak tighter around his shoulders. It was still summer, yet there was a definitive chill in the air, a breeze born up from the sea that signaled cooler nights to come.

Click. Click. His footfalls echoed on the marble floors. He winced as the silence magnified them a hundred fold.

_I might as well have donned my feet in iron. I should wear my hunting boots next time._ They had soft padded soles that dampened footfalls, better to sneak up on prey. And better to sneak about the house of one’s uncle and cousins.

 Quietly as he might, he pried open the door that led to the entry hall, and to the gardens beyond. He slipped through, drawing up the hood of his cloak.

 “Findekano.” A voice hissed through the darkness and a candle sputtered to life. Every nerve in his body tensed, head swiveling to find the location of the speaker.

“Uncle.” Findekano dipped his head.

 Fëanáro’s eyes gleamed like steal out of the shadows, the candle light making them glow hard and angry. “Findekano,” He repeated, “I had not thought to see you here, at this hour.”

 “My apologies uncle.” In the beam of Fëanáro’s gaze he felt himself frozen, like a bird that is being stalked by a cat. “I came to visit Maitimo.”

  “Indeed, you have been visiting my son a great deal lately.”

  Findekano tried to smile but something about the motion seemed wrong, as if his face had forgotten how. “Of course uncle, Maitimo and I…we are the very best of friends.”

Fëanáro’s eyes narrowed. “And I wonder, what it is you two speak of, cloistered in his rooms at all hours of the night and day.”

_He knows…_ Findekano tried to hide the panic from his face. “We only—“

“What secrets has Nelyo told you?!” His voice rang harsh and cold, sending echoes around the chamber.

“Secrets, uncle?”

“Do not lie to me Findekano son of Nolofinwe, I know why your father has sent you here. You come to spy on me and my own. Do you deny it?”

Relief flooded him, despite the severity of the accusation. Fëanáro knew nothing.

He bowed his head. “No uncle I swear, Maitimo and I speak only of the comings and goings of court, of hunting, things of little importance.”

“Just as I would expect your father to say. All the Nolofinwions are liars.”

“That is not so Uncle.”

Fëanáro shook his head in one swift movement and spoke with a voice cut from ice. “I will not see you in my house again son of Nolofinwe, nor will I see you speaking to my son. Are we clear?”

A lump rose in Findekano’s throat. “Yes Uncle.”

“Half Uncle.”

“Yes Feanaro.”

His grey eyes glittered, the candle light painting them with chips of gold. “Now get out of my house.”

Findekano had no choice but to draw up his cloak and flee, the eyes of Fëanáro burning into his back like coals. Only once he had reached the shelter of the garden did he dare stop, leaning up against the trunk of an aged willow. His heart thudded in his chest. Through the gaps in the branches he watched as Varda’s stars paled, faint streams of golden light beginning to intersperse themselves through the air. They seemed to swim before him as salt stung his eyes.

_Why did everything have to end up so damned complicated?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feanor really should take a chill pill....anyways I hope this chapter was enjoyable. I delayed posting it because I wasn't quite satisfied with it (I'm still not, but slightly more so than I was). In any case the next chapter will probably revert to being more Maedhros/fingon-centric but I felt the need to explore what else was going on with some of the other members of the family. Until next time!


End file.
